I have this problem. It’s a problem with commitment. In that I do it often, and for very short periods of time.

When I discover something new, whether it be crocheting, community supported agriculture, or–I don’t know–collecting antique glass bottles, I throw myself into the idea head first. It becomes an obsession. I learn everything I can about the hobby, its history, the culture surrounding it–the works. And then, despite my best intentions, something else will inevitably catch my eye. And even though the day before I’d been researching business plans in preparation to make the production of soy-based, vegan candles my life’s work, it will have become painfully evident that my true calling is to open a combination yoga/dance/martial arts studio. With a coffee house on the ground floor. In Iceland.

While this certainly makes for interesting conversations, I do reach points of despair, and beat myself up over my lack of staying power. For my lack of passion. Because obviously haven’t found what I’m meant to do with my life if I keep on changing my damn mind about it.

But what I’m beginning to realize, dear Internet, is that rapidly rotating interests do not make me flighty. Perhaps they’re even healthy. The key is to not take any of them too seriously. It is ok to like something without it becoming a passion. It’s ok to like something just because I like it.

Yes, You Are

feminism n (1895) 1 : the theory of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes 2 : organized activity on behalf of women’s rights and interests — feministn or adj — feministicadj

Above, the dictionary definition of feminism — the entire dictionary definition of feminism. It is quite straightforward and concise. If you believe in, support, look fondly on, hope for, and/or work towards equality of the sexes, you are a feminist.

Yes, you are.

The definition of feminism does not ask for two forms of photo ID. It does not care what you look like. It does not care what color skin you have, or whether that skin is clear, or how much you weigh, or what you do with your hair. You can bite your nails, or you can get them done once a week. You can spend two hours on your makeup, or five minutes, or the time it takes to find a Chapstick without any lint sticking to it. You can rock a cord mini, or khakis, or a sari, and you can layer all three. The definition of feminism does not include a mandatory leg-hair check; wax on, wax off, whatever you want. If you believe in, support, look fondly on, hope for, and/or work towards equality of the sexes, you are a feminist.

Yes, you are.

The definition of feminism does not mention a membership fee or a graduated tax or “…unless you got your phone turned off by mistake.” Rockefellers, the homeless, bad credit, no credit, no problem. If you believe in, support, look fondly on, hope for, and/or work towards equality of the sexes, you are a feminist.

Yes, you are.

The definition of feminism does not require a diploma or other proof of graduation. It is not reserved for those who teach women’s studies classes, or to those who majored in women’s studies, or to those who graduated from college, or to those who graduated from high school, or to those who graduated from Brownie to Girl Scout. It doesn’t care if you went to Princeton or the school of hard knocks. You can have a PhD, or a GED, or a degree in mixology, or a library card, or all of the above, or none of the above. You don’t have to write a twenty-page paper on Valerie Solanas’s use of satire in The S.C.U.M. Manifesto, and if you do write it, you don’t have to get better than a C-plus on it. You can really believe math is hard, or you can teach math. You don’t have to take a test to get in. You don’t have to speak English. If you believe in, support, look fondly on, hope for, and/or work towards equality of the sexes, you are a feminist.

Yes, you are.

The definition of feminism is not an insurance policy; it doesn’t exclude anyone based on age. It doesn’t have a “you must be this tall to ride the ride” sign on it anywhere. It doesn’t specify how you get from place to place, so whether you use or a walker or a stroller or a skateboard or a carpool, if you believe in, support, look fondly on, hope for, and/or work towards equality of the sexes, you are a feminist.

Yes, you are.

The definition of feminism does not tell you how to vote or what to think. You can vote Republican or Libertarian or Socialist or “I like that guy’s hair.” You can bag voting entirely. You can believe whatever you like about child-care subsidies, drafting women, fiscal accountability, Anita Hill, environmental law, property taxes, Ann Coulter, interventionist politics, soft money, gay marriage, tort reform, decriminalization of marijuana, gun control, affirmative action, and why that pothole at the end of the street still isn’t fixed. You can exist wherever on the choice continuum you feel comfortable. You can feel ambivalent about Hillary Clinton. You can like the ERA in theory, but dread getting drafted in practice. The definition does not stipulate any of that. The definition does not stipulate anything at all, except itself. If you believe in, support, look fondly on, hope for, and/or work towards equality of the sexes, you are a feminist.

Yes, you are.

The definition of feminism does not judge your lifestyle. You like girls, you like boys, doesn’t matter. You eat meat, you don’t eat meat, you don’t eat meat or dairy, you don’t eat fast food, doesn’t matter. You can get married, and you can change your name or keep the one your parents gave you, doesn’t matter. You can have kids, you can stay home with them or not, you can hate kids, doesn’t matter. You can stay a virgin or you can boink everyone in sight, doesn’t matter. It’s not in the definition. If you believe in, support, look fondly on, hope for, and/or work towards equality of the sexes, you are a feminist.

Yes, you are.

Yes. You are. You are a feminist. If you believe in, support, look fondly on, hope for, and/or work towards equality of the sexes, you are a feminist. Period. It’s more complicated than that — of course it is. And yet…it’s exactly that simple. It has nothing to do with your sexual preference or your sense of humor or your fashion sense or your charitable donations, or what pronouns you use in official correspondence, or whether you think Andrea Dworkin is full of crap, or how often you read Bust or Ms. — or, actually, whether you’ve got a vagina. In the end, it’s not about that. It is about political, economic, and social equality of the sexes, and it is about claiming that definition on its own terms, instead of qualifying it because you don’t want anyone to think that you don’t shave your pits. It is about saying that you are a feminist and just letting the statement sit there, instead of feeling a compulsion to modify it immediately with “but not, you know, that kind of feminist” because you don’t want to come off all Angry Girl. It is about understanding that liking Oprah and Chanel doesn’t make you a “bad” feminist — that only “liking” the wage gap makes you a “bad” feminist, because “bad” does not enter into the definition of feminism. It is about knowing that, if folks can’t grab a dictionary and see for themselves that the entry for “feminism” doesn’t say anything about hating men or chick flicks or any of that crap, it’s their problem.

It is about knowing that a woman is the equal of a man in art, at work, and under the law, whether you say it out loud or not — but for God’s sake start saying it out loud already. You are a feminist.

There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening, that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and will be lost.

Found out about a Dresden Dolls show around here in November and am very excited about it. Have never seen them live but have a strong feeling they will not disappoint, if only because I have NO CLUE what to expect.

Due to the excitement and anticipation of said show, I was going through Amanda Palmer’s blog today and stumbled upon a re-posted article by Bob Lefsetz regarding music as experience vs. music as the slick-corporate-money-making-machine of today. It correlated nicely with a few conversations I’ve recently had about how music can be much more meaningful when produced by people who just love to make music, rather than people who wish to be famous and/or rich. A simple concept, and yet it seems quite rare.

In other news, I’ve decided I’m going to be Amanda Fucking Palmer when I grow up. Though, as she’s only four years older than me, it seems I best get crackin’.

I went to see the Grateful Dead exhibit at the New York Historical Society. Thank God I slept late. Turns out they don’t open until noon. Finally, a rock and roll museum show!

Not that I’d recommend it. You see there’s very little there. It’s kind of like going to Carvel and getting only a dollop, going to In-N-Out and getting a cheeseburger or going to Mrs. Fields and getting half a cookie. We want the complete ice cream cone, shots and all, a Double Double, enough cookies to fly high above the astral plane on the sugar buzz. And that’s what the Grateful Dead delivered. It wasn’t a concert, but an experience. They played for hours.

And most people didn’t give a shit.

Actually, very few people cared at all for a very long time. The Dead were famous for playing for free, not only because they believed in the cause, but for the exposure. The best way to convert new Deadheads was to get them to a show. One can argue the Dead didn’t make a decent studio album after 1970’s “American Beauty”, but their live show grew their audience. Slowly. Steadily. And now we’ve got all the pundits saying to do it like the Dead. Well, exactly how did the Dead do it?

Not through hit songs. By time “Touch Of Grey” finally made it to MTV in the eighties, the band had been at it for more than two decades and was already established as a monster touring attraction. The music was important. But it wasn’t enough. What made the Dead an institution was community. The audience felt like they belonged. They felt bonded both to the act and their fellow fans. The Dead weren’t interested in everybody, just those who cared. And this is much different from today. When the goal of every band is world domination. Quickly. Accompanied by bags of money.

It took the Dead years to even make an appealing record. Their first three albums were stiffs. Completely. They only got a bit of traction upon the release of “Live/Dead” in ‘69. It was the first Dead album that was truly listenable. Then came the dynamic duo of “Workingman’s Dead” and “American Beauty”, a one eighty in sound, and suddenly the alchemy took hold. Fans of the records went to see the fully-developed show and were hooked. And took their buddies. All in search of a good time.

That’s what the music represented. Get high, lay back for a few hours and let’s see if we can lift the roof off this joint. You’re not waiting for the hit. You’re not amazed by the pyrotechnics. But if the band stands on stage playing long enough, we’re all gonna fall into a groove, you’ll feel it and be transported.

Not that it always went down that way. There could be hours of lousy music. But the band was trying. To create something new and different each and every night. Miss a show, and you missed a once in a lifetime experience. So, you had to go. Just in case. And while you were there, you met Bobby and Sue, Sally and Dave, like-minded people from all over the country, who too were in search of the elusive experience. One that only the Dead could deliver. Especially as years went by and music became slick and expensive, when the money was everything.

And speaking of money, there was a ticket stub from 1994 with a printed price of $25. I don’t care how many years have gone by since, there’s no way you get to the ticket prices of today. When the promoter and the act are adversaries, when the promoter is a public company and no gig is a transcendent event, just another blip on the cavalcade of revenue producing dates. Bill Graham might have been a motherfucker, but the band respected him, was in business with him. Today, the goal is to rip off Live Nation. To be overpaid by AEG. And if the fan is fucked in the process, well, you can’t sell a record anymore, it’s got to be this way.

But the Dead could never sell a record. They weren’t even stars by today’s anemic sales standards. Sure, eventually some of those albums went gold, “American Beauty” even platinum. But it took years and years. Then again, create something desirable and you can sell it for years. Is anybody going to want “Poker Face” down the line? If you believe so, you’ve drunk too much kool-aid, and not the kind Ken Kesey was spooning out.

So, you’ve got to ask yourself, are you selling singles, hits, or a whole oeuvre of music?

The Dead weren’t selling hits. They seemed unable to write one. And it wasn’t about the album. So don’t give me any mishegas about preserving the long form. But it was more than a track. You couldn’t distill them down to one three minute song no matter how hard you tried. How to square “Uncle John’s Band” with “Dark Star”? Impossible. Which is why when someone tells you to settle on one sound and stay there you should scratch your head. Might be easier to sell at first, but down the line, your one-dimensional sound lands you on oldies radio at best, maybe you can play the lounge at the casino, whereas the Dead ended up filling stadiums!

The free music, the tape trading? That’s been overstated. Most Dead fans had never heard a live cassette. But those circulating cassettes did so with such fervor that the legend spread. So if you think the way to emulate the Dead is to give your music away, you’re missing the point, that’s one tiny element.

But, that doesn’t mean you don’t have to give something away. The Dead did this regularly. Their fan club was free. You got sample discs, newsletters and the ability to buy tickets. In other words, every transaction was not a revenue generating event. This was about music and life more than money. And, as a result, the band’s fans thought the performers had their best interests at heart, and responded by not only buying tickets, but creating comics, home made merch and endless artwork. This is how they evidenced their belief. So strange in an era where rights holders clamp down on any innovative behavior by fans. Don’t remix my music, don’t do anything unauthorized. Maybe I’ll have a contest, with strict parameters, but it’s all got to be controlled.

The Dead were out of control. They were on an adventure without a destination. Sometimes leading their fans, sometimes being led by their audience. They solicited feedback. They didn’t know exactly what they were doing. No artist really does. You can’t plan art, you can only start.

Traipsing through the exhibit, one was struck not so much by what a long strange trip it was, but that it was over, that what the Dead represented is now long gone. The Dead were the precursor to Silicon Valley. We used to need to get a new computer, we knew all the specs, now they’re sold at Best Buy for cheap and most people don’t care what’s inside. It’s a mature industry.

And music is positively over the hill.

First and foremost, everybody wants to get paid. Not only the labels, but the songwriters and performers. They want the cash right away, not realizing that the heyday of the late twentieth century might be just that, a heyday, that’s gone, never to return.

Music is free and concerts are events you attend infrequently, hell, who could afford to go once a month, like we used to?

How successful would ecstasy be at $125 a hit. Imagine if a puff of marijuana cost $75. You’d still want to get high. But it would be a rare event, and you’d expect to see skyrockets, you’d expect to have the time of your life. Ergo all the dancing and pyrotechnics on today’s stages. Because if you pay that amount of money for a ticket and the show’s not stupendous, you’re beyond disappointed, you feel ripped off! And you’re not eager to go again.

So blame Universal. And Live Nation. And the acts. But blame yourself too. Because you no longer want to take a chance, you no longer want to risk going to a less than stellar show. And when you go, you want something akin to “Avatar”, all special effects with a lame story. Whereas, when done right, music is enough. Doesn’t matter how the performers look, doesn’t matter if they’re playing in front of a black curtain, if they’re in the groove, it’s transcendent. But how transcendent can it be if the show’s on hard drive, if it’s the same every night? That’s a movie, not music.

So, as you can see, we’re screwed. Everybody’s paying lip service to a bygone era, but not emulating it. Bands are not willing to follow their own direction, starving until their audience finds them, getting so good that they can’t be denied. And an audience brought up on music videos wants the show to be just like the clips, or they’re pissed. Shit, the Dead couldn’t play the same song the same way the following night, never mind a hundred nights straight!

The Dead never had their victory lap, no cover of “Newsweek” and appearance on the “Today Show”, no acknowledgement by the mainstream. Because they weren’t made for everybody. Just for a small coterie. But in America, a small coterie can keep you humming along quite well, throwing off a ton of cash, keeping everybody in smiles.

One of the signature Dead moments was a cover tune, in its most famous incarnation, segued into from Buddy Holly’s “Not Fade Away”.

In between, it wasn’t sure where the band was going, but then you realized they were headed down that road feelin’ bad.

If you’re not willing to go down that road feeling bad, you’re not a believer in rock and roll. The artist has to be able to keep his eyes open as he drives to the next gig, possibly a thousand miles away. The fan has to wake up hungover and go to work. And the label has to be willing to throw its hands in the air and realize that it may never get its money back.

But everybody had a very good time. An extremely good time. Such a good time, that they want to do it again. The act wants to play more gigs, the label wants to make more records and the fan wants to go to more shows. All in pursuit of that peak experience, unique, unavailable anywhere else.

Imagine if every love affair were identical. That you went to the brothel and overpaid to get your rocks off. That’s today’s music business. You come, but you’re not satisfied. And believe me, one thing Grateful Dead fans were was satisfied. They felt by pursuing their interest in the San Francisco band they’d be rewarded in a way they were not in work. They might even acquire a love interest. And the music would inspire them and keep them warm at night.

That’s rock and roll. And you see glimpses of it now and again, but it’s mostly absent today. Because everybody must get paid. Everybody must get STONED, and you must NEVER FORGET THIS!

Typing out of boredom. Jeezy Creezy I’m bored. Help. Typing out of boredom. Appreciating the calm but my own thoughts are boring me right now. Hey, the Shins are playing. That song from Garden State. Liked that movie. Should watch it again. The 24 year old me really appreciated it. Wonder if the 30 year old me would find it whiny. I love Pandora. All my channels end up sounding a like though. I need to stop hitting those thumbs up and thumbs down options. Apparently everything I like sounds the same. I can start out with a Decemberists station and a Cake Bake Betty station, and they’ll end up being identical after a while. I’m predictable. I’m hungry. No, I’m not hungry, I just want something sweet. Gonna try to fake myself out with Crystal Light. I swear, boredom is hell on the waistline. But then so is stress. I’m just an eater, no matter what the mood. But sitting all day doesn’t help. It sucks, actually. I miss the activity of working retail sometimes. Don’t miss the money. Or the inane questions coming from customers. “Excuse me, where’s your non-fiction section?” You see that wall that says fiction? Non-fiction is EVERYWHERE ELSE. “I’m looking for this book but I don’t know the name. Or the author. But it was about X and had a purple cover.” Really? I guess I get inane questions from people now too, they were just more comical when I was working at a book store. Or maybe they were more comical because I was younger. I’ve become a cynic. A cynic who works in corporate America, who sits at a desk for 9 hours a day, five days a week. No wonder my back hurts. And yet when I get home I’m exhausted. How is that even possible? Sounds stupid to say I’m exhausted at the end of the day when a minute before I was complaining about being bored. I’m not always bored. I’m not usually bored. Usually I’m running ragged (at my desk, ha) from stress. I like the boredom. I do. It’s a nice reprieve. Something I’ve been begging for lately. Ugh. I need to cover up my clock so I stop looking at it. The more I look at it the slower it gets. This is why I shouldn’t wear watches. Aside from the fact that I just hate watches. They’re too sporty. Kind of ugly. Very no-nonsense. I used to try to just buy watch faces and string them with ribbon and tie them around my wrist. That was cute. Sort of whimsical. But they’d never stay tied. That was annoying. Bet I could find a better type of ribbon though. I should try that. I should go to Hancock and shop for crafty stuff. I need to sew more often. I have a sewing machine that’s collecting dust and projects I want to try yet nothing. I want to make something pretty. I always have idea but no follow-through. Like the crocheting thing. I bought a book and yarn and needles and tried at it for a couple of hours and got a blister (what a badass, I know) then got frustrated and put it away. Like, a year ago. I have no attention span. God I’m bored.